University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE—Snowdon.
Enter O'Turloch, Gwyn.
O'TURLOCH.

Victoria! victoria! blessed be the powers of
music for the victory!

GWYN.

The powers of music! Give Got thanks for
the nerves of our podies, and the courage of our
souls. They are the only causes of our success.

O'TURLOCH.

Give me leave. They the causes! To be
sure they are; but then what was it wound both
of them to so high a pitch?

GWYN.

Why, partly, our danger.

O'TURLOCH.

Danger give a man courage! O, if that had
come from one of my countrymen!

GWYN.

Well, then account for it in your own way.

O'TURLOCH.

You gain'd the battle by the virtue of these
pipes;—nothing else in the world. I'll tell you
the business.—No sooner, you know, had the
general delivered his peaceable errand, than our
prince gave the word to set upon the enemy;
the charge was sounded—

GWYN.

Aye, aye; it made hur heart jump in hur
pody.

O'TURLOCH.

I don't wonder—for that long crane-neck'd
fellow with the brazen face and the wide mouth
bray'd out the invitation to death's dance. O, I
never could abide a trumpet; it is the only war-music
that ever degrades itself by sounding a
retreat.

GWYN.

It is a hateful sound, when an enemy is master
of the field.

O'TURLOCH.

I would not have given a fillip for the lives of
the whole little community, when I heard it.—
I saw there was no time to be lost; for every
man of you had his sword drawn, and was rushing
down the mountain, like a torrent after a
heavy rain; so, I took up my pipes, and to it I

went, with all my skill. You fell to work, and
I kept time. I never deserted you; and, as
long as a man remained with a head to be
cloven, I kept up the inspiration which governed
your valour—and so you won the battle.

GWYN.

There is no denying the pipes did great goot;
but, if the true old Welch harp had not roar'd
out its noble indignation to boot, the victory
might not have been so certain.

O'TURLOCH.

My dear comrade, never trouble yourself to
tell an Irishman the value of the Welch harp.
We are all so convinced of it, that we use its
lovely figure as a stamp upon our dirty copper
halfpence; and it makes them pass current for
all the conveniences in the world.

GWYN.

Here comes the prince. How victory beams
from his countenance through our ragged troop,
like a winter sun through a forest. (Flourish

trumpets.)
God save the brave Llewellyn!

Enter Llewellyn, Cadwall, and others.
LLEWELLYN.
Well, valiant countrymen; the day is ours.—
And be it parcel of our hearted thanks,
That we present them to high heaven, untended
By prayers for even one departed friend.
Our charge in terror struck like prodigy:
Disparity for once was lord of numbers;
And weakness, in the garb of resolution,
Seem'd magnified into a giant's strength!

CADWALL.
Our men at times look'd chain'd by wonder, sir;—
They knew our bands so thin,—the foe's so full,—
That, when the cowards fled, it seem'd a snare,
To lure us on to ruin; and the victor,
Doubting his conquest, trembled at pursuit.

LLEWELLYN.
No wonder, Cadwall. Why, the invader's numbers
Surpass'd us tenfold. Yet, mark this, my friends:—
There is in wrong a self-debasing power
That aids the just man in his aweful vengeance.
Invasion ever comes with half a heart:
Invaders are but barren units, drawn
From the vast total of a foreign land;
And place and fit relation, all their value,
Are elsewhere wanting to them—such as wives,
Parents and brethren, and, the germs in whom
They vivify again, their tender children.
'Tis not for them the invader draws his sword;
The servile minister of mightier villains,
Who use him, as the scythe of destavation,
To mow down sturdy honour. For our Britons,
The souls of all these relatives combin'd
Infuse them in their veins; for these we fight—
For home, and all the nameless charities
That honour and endear it:—strung by these,
Our nerves are iron-brac'd; our swelling hearts
Are danger-proof; and, to our guilty foe,
The cause we fight for dresses us in horror.

CADWALL.

What are your orders, sir, touching the
prisoners.

LLEWELLYN.
Release 'em—Send them home.—In our weak state,
We cannot spare the active soldier's foot
To pace the centry's narrow march before
The prisoner's dungeon.—Nay, their growing numbers
Might, at a moment of employment, burst
From our confinement; and, with desperate hands,
Assail us in conjunction with the foe.

Enter Shenkin.
SHENKIN.
Health to the prince!

LLEWELLYN.
Welcome, my brave old friend:
You've heard the news?

SHENKIN.

Aye, marry have I, sir. It saved me from
despair. In the morning, I gave up all for lost.
I saw the steely rogues, glittering in all their
pride, ascend the mountains. They rummag'd
my poor hovel overnight, for loyalty conceal'd:
I hid nothing from 'em; but brought it out in
this old frosty countenance. The rascals blush'd
at the sight of it, and spar'd it for its rarity.

(Llewellyn goes aside to one who enters.)
CADWALL.

Father!

SHENKIN.

My darling boy! (embracing.)
I do not ask if
thou hast done thy duty—it would insult thee:
but thou'rt before the highest judge of merit;
and, if thy prince approve thee, I may spare my
idle commendation.

CADWALL.

Here is your sword, good father;—no rust on
it! It has seen active service since I carried it;
and, trust me, I do not blush at the use I make
of it. I hope one day, when all our wars are

ended, to hang it up sheath'd, in our beloved
cottage.

SHENKIN.

Aye, boy—and then you must indulge old
Shenkin's pride. Age lives but in the past.
Once every year, I'll take it down upon this day
of wonders; call all our peasants and their children
round us; and tell the actions it has seen
and shar'd—Win shall sing to us the wild song of
praise; and keep the British fire warm in its
embers.

LLEWELLYN.
I grieve, my friends, on such a day as this
To stain the face of joy with any blot
Drawn from my own immediate circumstance.
But by a trusty friend e'en now arriv'd,
I learn my destin'd bride, great Monfort's daughter,
With Amoric, her brother, who by sea
Were coming here to join us, by the cruizers,
With which our great oppressor choaks our channel,
Are taken, and now prisoners at Chester.
I burn to try by stratagem to see,
Perhaps relieve her.—I shall be returning
Ere twice the sun rise smiling in the east
To grace recovered freedom. In my journey
Cadwall, Gwyn, O'Turloch, you attend me.
In the disguise of wand'ring minstrels, first,
We'll gain a perfect sight of her condition.
No sleep shall close these eyes 'till they behold her!
Now, fortune, aid me—and I ask no more.

(Flourish trumpets.)
[Exit.
Manet O'Turloch.
O'TURLOCH.

From war to love—och it's like day and night
to a soldier; and he best deserves to lie in the
lap of the one, who discharges his duty handsomely
in the other.

SONG.

[Exit.
SCENE—Chester, the Palace.
Enter Prince David, and Edwin a Servant.
DAVID.
Tis well—The princess Elinor approaches.
You may retire.
[Exit. Edwin.
My heart swells high with hope!
I know the nature well of woman-kind:
Ambition overreaches love within them;
And present tempting offers seldom fail
To shake a distant and a doubtful good.
My brother, who from infancy to manhood
Has triumph'd o'er me, shall at last be taught,
That chance or fortune, which the world terms fickle,
Is stable as the founded rock, compar'd
With that weak versatility—a woman.
But she is here.
Enter Elinor.
I know not, beauteous princess,
If I may dare congratulate myself,
That the kind chance of war has interpos'd
To save me from despair.

ELINOR.
Tis easy answer'd.
Prince David has but to demand his heart,
If the misfortunes of his royal brother
Are fit occasions for his selfish triumph.

DAVID.
Severe yet just the statement.—Gracious madam,
Did you but know my injuries from him—
This brother!—how deadly to my peace and honour!

ELINOR.
Fraternal injuries!—What, if I grant them
In all the latitude you feel and speak them,
Is the rude ball of hate to know no rest?
Are kindred hands the rackets fittest chos'n,
To play this desp'rate game of endless strife?
When first he claim'd acquaintance with my father,
Where did I find this brother of Llewellyn?
Fast by his side; the champion of his cause;
The brave assertor of his country's freedom.
What do I find him now? A mean dependant
On him who only cherishes your strife,
From the sure prospect to destroy you both.
I need not speak this, nor remind you, sir,
He who would subjugate his native land,
May fitly persecute his natural brother.

DAVID.
Ungenerous maid! from any tongue but thine
Such bitter taunt might come, and never wound me.

ELINOR.
And what blest power is in my speech, that truth
Should never penetrate a callous conscience,
Unless the probe be minister'd by me?

DAVID.
In thee 'tis insult!—Who, but thou, O Elinor—
What but the fatal influence of thy beauty,
Could make me alien from a brother's love?
Llewellyn, as my elder, steps before me,
To snatch dominion from my grasp—Be it his!
I would not wrangle with him for an empire.
But, in the object of my love, I own
No title paramount.

ELINOR.
I understand the slanderous compliment!
Sir, you may be of those (for such there are)
Who, if they praise a woman's beauty, think
They have full power to insult her understanding!
I am not vain enough, to feel the merit
Of him, who offers at my gaudy shrine,
The incense drawn from violated nature.

DAVID.
Think not I make a merit of dissension.
I rather, shewing thee thyself its cause,
Would so extenuate the guilt I own.

ELINOR.
The cause is in thy pride and avarice!
Thou wouldst engross all blessings from thy brother!
And when his cruel fates divest him hourly
Of something valued by his noble nature,
Like a remorseless plund'rer, you would strip
The household soother from his naked side,
And leave him misery unmitigated!
That I live to prevent.—

DAVID.
How, if the conqueror
In recompence award thee to his brother—
What will this preference avail thee?

ELINOR.
Much.
I know the common jet of your conceptions.
Woman is but the pliant, binding wax,
To seal the compact of your lordly friendships!
Her rights are center'd in one word—submission.
Whate'er you shall resolve, we ratify.
When you have rivetted her bonds upon her,
War you against her father—she complies.
Hate you her twin-born brother—she hates too.
But some there are who dare assert her claims
To independance on your tyrannies.—
One such is now before you.—Try her firmness—
Urge her, by slanders on the man she worships,
And threats on her resistance—You shall find,
That constancy, if ever it reside
In the weak tenement of mortal breast,
Lives in the temple of a woman's love.

DAVID.
Methinks even caution might repress these wrongs—
And the proud captive of my will and power
Decline, by loud and keen exasperation,
To load her lot with harshness. Well digest this—
Receive my suit with temper; for my soul
Is not to be diverted from its object.—
Mine you must be: and yet may be with honour.
But, O, most beauteously indignant trifler,
Beware disdain! before that sour-ey'd fiend
The milk of love's benevolence soon curdles,
And the whole man grows acrid and distasteful.

ELINOR.
I know my danger from both love and hatred:
I may survive the hatred I despise,
But never the fell serpent you term love.—
It is our sex's glory, to excite
The gentle flame of virtuous inclination—
But when, with sulph'rous breath, Malignity
Blows up his mouldring fire upon our altar,
The having, though unconsciously, inspir'd it,
Confounds us with involuntary shame!

[Exit.
DAVID.
Amazement roots me here! The sudden bolt
Of indignation blighted my resolves.—
Have I so long studied this wayward sex,
To shrink from what I scorn, mere babble, breath,
Which vanity puffs forth, and styles it virtue—
The woman's affluence, words!—O yes, I love!
Spite of her arrogance, she binds me to her,
A captive in the fetters of disdain.—
But he, for whom she braves me thus, shall answer—
The storm of just revenge now blackens round him;—
'Tis mine to point its fury. He destroy'd,
I shall be rid of puny vows and pledges,
Which a green girl, begoddess'd by a knave,
Holds dearer than her duty. O 'twill glad me
To note her wily palliatives then
To soothe th'insulted spirit of her master.
That thought at least is transport to me! Fortune,
Fix but these hues of fancy, and my soul
Nor knows, nor cares to know, a bliss beyond.

[Exit.
[This Scene is omitted in the representation.]
‘SCENE.—The Antichamber of the Palace.
‘Enter Dynevor, Meredith.
‘DYNEVOR.
‘The council sitting yet! 'Tis strange, the king
‘Should never ask our aid, knowing how much
‘We shar'd Llewellyn's confidence; besides,
‘Our local information might supply
‘Such counsel as would most mature the plans
‘Of his intended expedition.

‘MEREDITH.
‘Sir,
‘You may remember it was promised to us,
‘That, when his majesty should have determin'd
‘How best to use our services, our zeal
‘Should not rust idly in the sheath of quiet.

‘DYNEVOR.
‘My valiant friend, I heard the chilling hint—
‘It whisper'd me distrust in courteous phrase:
‘'Twas as we treat the beggar's supplication—
‘Return his bow with proud humility;
‘Tell him we shall consider his afflictions;
‘Then fly his irksome presence, and forget him.

‘MEREDITH.
‘Indeed, my lord, the image of your thought
‘Is too much like my own conceit of late.
‘This very morning, coming to the court,
‘I met De Thonis and Lord Latimer;
‘They look'd at me approaching; and, when close,
‘As I was ready to exchange respects,
‘The nearer turn'd to his companion's ear;
‘And both, with eyes averted, and low speech,
‘Pass'd, as we hasten by a house infected.

‘DYNEVOR.
‘O 'tis a fearful lesson!—Courtiers' eyes
‘Are, to the wise observer, perfect glasses,
‘That magnify, and teach him to discern
‘The distant thoughts and objects of their master.
‘When they neglect, adieu to royal favour!

‘MEREDITH.
‘Here comes Lord Mortimer; and from the presence.
‘Let us accost him.

‘Enter Lord Mortimer, and other Lords as passing through.
‘MEREDITH.
‘My gracious lord, the council has sat long.

‘MORTIMER.
‘It has been deeply occupied, my lord.

‘MEREDITH.
‘March we, my lord, to Snowdon? or, perhaps—

‘MORTIMER.
‘Where we are order'd, lords, thither we march.

‘DYNEVOR.
‘I guess'd the council might determine this.

‘MORTIMER.
‘It has determin'd this. Farewel, my lords.

‘[Exeunt and train.
‘DYNEVOR.
‘See this, good heav'n!—Yon lord, disdaining insult,
‘Wraps in the veil of secrecy the counsel
‘Refus'd our privity. Here comes an officer
‘Will shut, my life on't, ev'n the doors against us.

‘[They retire a-while.
‘Enter the Door-keeper.
‘DOOR-KEEPER.

‘Fye, fye upon it; what a work I have to
‘keep the presence clear. Nothing but pressing
‘onward for employment. In time of peace, I
‘can stand coolly in the gate, and never bring
‘my elbows into action. Now, if I clapt as
‘many doors between us as guarded Rosamond,
‘at Woodstock Bower, the knaves would split

‘them all to get at me. “Sweet, sir,” says
‘one, “this door leads to the presence?”—It
‘does, good friend, said I, and shut the wicket.
‘Another rogue taps me upon the grating, “I
‘would here tender all my grain to the king,
‘for the service of the army.” How much have
‘you, man? He holds me up his hand, and,
‘shining palely through his red choppy forefoot,
‘I spy a dollar. O come in, friend, I have order
‘to admit you.

‘DYNEVOR.

‘Porter.

DOOR-KEEPER.

‘Anon, sir. You can wait, I trow. This
‘comes of treachery, it is damn'd on either side.
‘When they fled from their master Llewellyn,
‘they made their entry here as if they returned
‘from triumph; but their grace soon cooled:
‘and now, instead of jostling through the crowd,
‘and making straight for the presence, they
‘creep about the lobby, and remember the
‘porter.

‘DYNEVOR.

‘If you are at leisure, friend, I would have
‘some speech with you.

‘DOOR-KEEPER.

‘Truly, friend, I am not at leisure; and if I

‘were, I have no mind for that speech, which
‘my betters don't care for.

‘DYNEVOR.
‘So, 'tis as common as the palace steps!
‘(To Meredith.)
‘The damp of court-disdain has spread so widely,
‘It clings like rust upon the locks; and lo,
‘The very porter cannot turn his key.

‘MEREDITH.
‘Are we permitted access to the king?

‘DOOR-KEEPER.

‘Where a man doubts his own welcome, you
‘need make no scruple to tell him to try another
‘place; the outer door is open: all I can do for
‘you is to shut this; for the wind of royal displeasure
‘blows now so strongly against you,
‘that you may catch cold by standing in the
‘draft.

[Exit. shutting the door after him.
‘MEREDITH.
‘Despised, insulted, made a quintain block,
‘For every clown to run a tilt agaiinst,
‘And break his witless weapon unchastis'd—
‘This is too much for patience!

‘DYNEVOR.
‘No, I'll bear all.
‘And when the multiplied contempts I suffer
‘Have mortified my proud ungrateful spirit
‘To the very dust, I'll to my injur'd master,
‘Seek him in battle, someway win his notice;
‘And as the furious falchion thirsts to reach him,
‘Fling my vile breast between the point and him,
‘And while the welcome steel grides through my heart,
‘Implore one word of pardon, and die happy.

‘MEREDITH.
‘I'll thither with thee, man! and expiate all.
‘He, whom no treachery taints, though poor and bare,
‘May show his honest brows at noon to the sun,
‘And never blush to see his constant course.

‘DYNEVOR.
‘Let us, then, watch the season to escape.

‘MEREDITH.
‘With no less zeal, than if assur'd forgiveness
‘Waited with outstretched arms, to welcome us
‘To the proud bliss that must be our's no more.

‘[Exeunt.’
SCENE—An Apartment.
Enter Elinor.
ELINOR.
The free are apt to fancy, that no evil
More wrings the mind than stern captivity:
However, in her gloomy train there waits
A slave, more irksome than her mistress, nam'd
Uncertainty. Here I am shunn'd by all.
Around me, busy Preparation whets
Her murd'rous edge for some new enterprize.
Llewellyn! O, I fear thee!—Slight success
Will only irritate thy mightier foe,
And crush thy hopes and liberty together.
(She flings herself on a couch.)
(Minstrels are heard without.)
Hark! what kind hand in those my early fav'rites,
Invokes by music's spell my buried joys?
Who waits there?—

Enter Edwin, an Attendant.
EDWIN.
What's your pleasure madam?

ELINOR.
Say,
What are those sounds I hear without the palace?

EDWIN.
They come from some north-country minstrels, who
Chime in their harmonies the swelling deeds
Of brave King Arthur, and Queen Geneura.

ELINOR.
Could I not borrow nearer pleasure from them?

EDWIN.
So please your grace, my master's orders go,
But to enforce my presence at such times:
A duty you will pardon—since I wish
For such a lady services more grateful.

ELINOR.
I'm bound to thank your courtesy, and will not
Ev'n by a word or look o'erpass injunction.

EDWIN.
They shall attend you here.

[Exit.
ELINOR.
'Tis said that servants
Are but the mirrors of their masters' manners,
This should reflect the brother of Llewellyn.
But I forget, the glass reverses too,
And, like a flatterer, always changes sides.
But here our minstrels come—a triple band.

Enter O'Turloch, Gwyn, and Winifred, conducted by Edwin.
O'TURLOCH.

Please you, my noble madam, to listen to the
poor minstrel, to amuse your gracious thoughts.

GWYN.

Right gracious, hur is sing an excellent ballad
of King Arthur, and the faire lady.

WINIFRED.

Aye, and the second part of the marriage of
Sir Gawaine, with the cruel deeds of the grim
baron of Cumberland.

ELINOR.

I remember I had a nurse once sung it, and
the first start of young curiosity, followed the
crone's shrill music through the tale. Repeat it,
friends.

SONG.
O'TURLOCH.

WINIFRED.

GWYN.

ELINOR.
Thanks, gentle friends—'tis right to the very letter.
We have i'the court, singers the most approv'd;
But, trust me, this your simple harmony
Affects beyond their science. There's more thanks.

(Gives money.)
O'TURLOCH.

I know no pleasure equal to the praise of my
music. And if the crosses of the world were
to shake me out of tune, the commendation of
beauty would screw my voice up to the true
pitch of harmony in a moment.

GYWN.

If hur may be so pold, her grace may wish to

ponder over the ballad at her leisure. Win has
here a copy of it, penned by a learned clerk down
in the north, which will give her great delight.

WINIFRED.

Aye, that I have; and the whole of it is so rivetted
to our memories, that it will never be
worn out.

O'TURLOCH.

Your highness will pardon Win, she does
not know the nature of the memory, or she
would have found, that repetition will wear out
any thing. But I beseech you accept the ballad.

(Giving a paper.)
ELINOR.
I will not be so churlish to your kindness,
To check its stream with a refusal.
(She looks upon it.)
Ha!—
Good friends, if it may suit your purposes
To sojourn here some days, I would require
More of your ditties.—I shall think of this
Deeply, be well assur'd.—Edwin, i'the hall
See them refresh'd: they well may grace your board,
Who harmonize the mind.

EDWIN.
Come this way, friends.

[Exeunt with minstrels.
Elinor
alone.
(Reads)

If Llewellyn be dear to her he calls his
Elinor, she will fly to meet him, at the shrine of
his honour'd mother, in the abbey. There, a pilgrim,
he kisses the marble that locks in the gracious
mould, which gave the form of man to
her

Llewellyn.

How has he 'scap'd detection!—Soft! for means,
To keep our interview from prying eyes:
I must pretend some penance.—Pardon, heav'n,
If from thy holy rites, I steal the name,
To sanction this, an act of virtuous passion.—
'Tis their abuse to evil which offends.
Lord of my heart, I fly to thy embrace.

[Exit.
Enter Prince David, followed by Edwin.
DAVID.
Neglectful knaves!—What tell you me of minstrels?
My orders were, no strangers should approach her.
Gone to perform a penance!—Why not follow?
Lest ev'n the surplic'd verger with his wand,
Turn love's magician, and bring tidings to her?
Hence, varlet!
[Exit Edwin.
Yet, why blame I his remissness?
'Twas natural he should comply.—But I
Will to the altar—mark her every gesture;
Then, by a prompt, unsparing charge, compel
Cunning to own its arts in burning blushes.

[Exit.
SCENE—The Abbey of Chester.
Llewellyn disguised as a Pilgrim, before the Shrine of Lady Griffyth .
LLEWELLYN.
Thou sacred piece of earth, which, clasp'd in marble,
Bound once within its beauteous shrine a spirit,
To which thus low I bend, accept the tear
Which filial love draws down a soldier's cheek.
And if thy meditation ever reach
Purpose so gross as mortal, let thy mind
Prompt and inspire thy son, that he may prove—

Enter Cadwall, hastily.
CADWALL.
My lord, from the north entry, where I stood,
I saw the princess coming to the abbey.—

LLEWELLYN.
Retire, then, my good Cadwall. [Exit Cadwall.
How my spirits
Rush back upon my heart!—O, expectation,
How dead thy silence! Now the trembling nerves
Betray their master; and this seat of thought
Aches ev'en to agony.—Is that a footstep,
Sounding in the aisle? No, 'tis the weighty pulse,
That tells the moments to the startled soul.
Hark!—Yet again!—'Tis Elinor! She comes!

Enter Elinor.
ELINOR.
O my soul's joy!—my glory!

(Embracing.)
LLEWELLYN.
Heav'n, I thank thee.—
My struggles are repaid.

ELINOR.
And have you conquer'd?—
But tell me how you have eluded notice?

LLEWELLYN.
After a fight, in which poor desperate rogues
Routed the dainty warriors sent against us,
I left my valiant friends, now strongly posted;
Here, as a minstrel, easy way I found—
And ev'n nois'd the victory I gain'd.

ELINOR.
My warrior, you now find me sore beset.—
Your brother still pursues his treacherous suit;
Sanction'd by haughty Edward. Every mouth
Is taught to clamour forth thy name with odium.
O, could I burst this bondage—fly with thee!—

LLEWELLYN.
Why not attempt it now?

ELINOR.
O, my Llewellyn!
If danger is to estimate my love,
Cold prudence it is deaf to. Lo, I am ready.

LLEWELLYN.
Strong must his arm be, that shall tear you from me.

ELINOR.
Stop, one approaches.—No, 'tis but the breeze
That sweeps the gath'ring dust from heroes' tombs.

LLEWELLYN.
Come, let us hence—a moment may be fatal.

(Cadwall without, chaunts two or three words as a signal.)
LLEWELLYN.
Ha!—There are persons coming to the altar.

(He throws himself on his knees, at a little distance from Elinor; She turns round from the shrine, and faces David, who enters abruptly.)
DAVID.
Madam, your arts are known! Pretended penance
Is but the medium of some intercourse
With that base slave my brother—and perhaps
Yon stranger mny be made the messenger.
Llewellyn rises, concealing himself.
A pilgrim!—no, by Heav'n! On that dark brow
Command sits thron'd. Pilgrim, speak!—What art thou?

LLEWELLYN.

The bondman of the virtuous.—To thee, nothing.

DAVID.
Ha!—Thou then know'st me, stranger.

LLEWELLYN.
Yes—I know thee.

DAVID.
What dost thou know me for?

LLEWELLYN.
The prince Llewellyn.

DAVID.
No, thou mistak'st me, pilgrim. Worlds unnumber'd
Should never win me to become that villain.

LLEWELLYN.
Villain!

DAVID.
Ha! his eye kindles with passion.
(Aside.)
Thou know'st him then?

LLEWELLYN.
He taught me how to love you.
To bow before the vast heroic virtues
That, for a scanty measure of court-sunshine,
Betray your family, your truth, your honour,
And treacherously would destroy that brother.

DAVID.
Wretch! one word more shall draw a vengeance on thee,
Not ev'n this place's privilege shall baffle!

LLEWELLYN.
The arm of villany is ever palsied.
As high as scorn can lift me, I defy thee!

(During this conflict, Elinor is much agitated, but afraid to interfere, lest a discovery should take place.)
DAVID.
Without there! Bear the princess Bele to the palace.
(Elinor bore off.)
Now then for explanation. Speak!—thy name!

(Llewellyn withdraws his cloak, and shews himself.)
DAVID.
Hell!—my brother!

LLEWELLYN.
Yes, behold him, traitor!

(Putting his hand upon his sword.)
DAVID.
Nay, then, there is no time for altercation.—
Thus I revenge the wrongs I have endur'd.
(Draws his sword.)
Voice (from the tomb.)
Forbear!—

DAVID.
My feeble arm denies its office.

LLEWELLYN.
Why droops the fratricide? Strike, thou pale villain!

DAVID.
Heard I aright! Did not the silent grave
Shriek out—'Tis juggling all—But should the dust
Of her who bore us now cohere again,
And bursting from its sepulture deter me,
Thus would I rush undaunted to thy heart!

(The upper part of the tomb, with a mighty noise, falls to the ground, and from the centre their mother rises in the funeral dress. Llewellyn falls upon his knees, with his arms extended towards her. David's arm is forcibly drawn back, and the sword flies from his grasp.)
(After a long pause.)
DAVID.
Spirit ador'd of her who gave us being,
Frown not so dreadful on me. Through my heart
I feel thy grasp, which, like the unsunn'd ice-bolt,
Freezes the marrow in my stiffening joints!

SPIRIT.
Have I not loved you?—Be peace between you!
Confirm it at the altar!
(The brothers, kneeling near each other, embrace, and she bends over them from above.)
Now, my children,
My blessing rest upon you!

Chorus of Spirits.
Dear is the incense that repentance flings,
And cherubs waft it heavenward with their wings,
Grateful the voice that bids your hatred cease,
A mother's mandate of fraternal peace.

(Here the funeral dress falls off; drapery of a fine cerulean colour gradually unfolds itself; her figure seems glorified; and through the opening window she is drawn, as it were, into the air, while music, as of immortal spirits, attends her progress. The brothers gaze silently after the vision, and the curtain drops.)